


the artist's wife

by livepoultryfreshkilled



Series: honey, if this plane goes down, i don't even want a parachute [2]
Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: ADHD Siobhan "Shiv" Roy, BPD Siobhan "Shiv" Roy, Bisexual Siobhan "Shiv" Roy, Bisexual Tom Wambsgans, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Introspection, POV First Person, POV Second Person, Sort Of, Trans Tom Wambsgans, art parallels, fuck it. yes he is, he really loves her so much, purple prose. ish, set in late s2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:28:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25685038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livepoultryfreshkilled/pseuds/livepoultryfreshkilled
Summary: you can't watch light move, you can't love a painting more than the painter. you can try, though. will you let me try?
Relationships: Siobhan "Shiv" Roy/Tom Wambsgans
Series: honey, if this plane goes down, i don't even want a parachute [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1842073
Comments: 18
Kudos: 24





	the artist's wife

You are in the kitchen and I am on the couch. I want to touch you, and you are so far away from me. You are too close.

You’re hunched over and sucking on the tip of your pen; your papers have covered the entire span of the table and your overheated laptop is whirring in complaint. _Honey, you always take up every inch of space. Darling, can you pay attention?_

Light shines in from the window and turns your hair into spun gold. It falls into your eyes, too short to stay tucked behind your ear and too long to be unobtrusive. You are working; I am not doing anything, I am watching you. The way the sunshine hits your skin makes you look like an oil painting. It would not be a still life. Nothing could keep you still.

 _The Artist’s Wife, Henry Lamb._ 1933\. The subject is slouched in an armchair, reading a book. She seems unaware of her being painted, too relaxed to pose. She is in casual dress, no makeup, face free of tension, and you can feel how much he loves her in every stroke. How he makes a home not in her, but _with_ her. _I’m probably projecting, Shiv, but I think about you when I think about love. I can’t help it, I don’t want to help it._

When we first started seeing each other, the way I looked at you made you uncomfortable. You could never understand how I could do nothing but watch you move for hours without ulterior motive, without it being an assessment or a judgement, just admiration. Observation. You got used to it eventually, this casual affection, but I don’t think you ever learned to trust it. _What happened to you, lover, that you can’t believe me? No matter how many years, you still think I could hurt you, even if I wanted to?_

You spent last night in our bed, curled into a ball so tight I couldn’t hear you breathe, your face contorted. You never move when you’re having a nightmare, like you think if you stay quiet enough it won’t see you. Sweetheart, can’t you tell me what’s chasing you? Your breathing goes shallow, and I want to hold you, but you flinch at touch. I’m afraid for you, sunshine, I feel how scared you are, like watching a house burn down with the doors locked from the inside. Why, _why,_ won’t you let me protect you? Don’t you see how bad I _want_ to? _Do you think you’re helping me, you, anyone, by being in so much pain? Who taught you to bleed alone?_

You think I’m corny when I call you sweetheart, darling, sunshine, apple of my eye. Light of my life, star in my sky, I’m over the moon for you, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m very corny, I guess, but I see how you smile when I make you laugh. Sometimes you relax in my arms and let me hold you, and I get to realize that this is why poets live in poverty, this is why artists cut off their ears, this is what they are creating _for_. Sometimes you trust me less when I’m too kind, sometimes I watch you pull away like a wounded animal. You’re not an animal, Shiv, _Shiv,_ you are the love of my life. Sometimes I see your father’s hand on the back of your neck when we are alone, and I know you see him where I’m standing. Sometimes it’s worse when you _don’t_ cry. When I hear Logan’s barking laugh in yours, because you don’t think it’s funny when I call you buttercup, bluebell. _Siobhan, I will never call you “Pinkie.”_ Siobhan, I will break my back to make you relax, relax, please calm down darling, just for a second. I hate to watch you when you’re gasping for air, I can’t bear to leave you alone. I will stand outside the door when you lock it, and if you need me to, I will sleep out there. I will always be there when you are ready to open up.

You don’t realize I’m watching you, I think. There is a “w” that forms between your eyes when you get stuck, I’m watching your work carve letters into your face. You get so angry, darling, all the time. Does that rage keep you warm at night? Is that why you won’t lie with me?

Why won’t you protect me, Shiv? Why won’t you work with me? Why do you make it so _hard?_ Why do you make me feel bad? I’m not a _threat,_ Siobhan. It’s not fair of you to treat me like that. It’s not right. I know you’re hurting, I know you’re scared, and I feel for you, I _do,_ but I’m a real human person, Shiv. I’m alive, and I bleed just as much as you do.

Your computer is still overheating, it’s going to light your papers on fire and burn our entire home to the ground, and that’s not fair, either. I know your work is important, I know you are trying to become something big and strong and untouchable, but it cannot be _that_ hard to look up and move it a little. You can care and be cared for at the same time. I’m not even sure if you know that, though. I am sick of this, I am tired, I just want to sleep in our bed without you kicking me bruised, and I don’t want to have to strap you down to do it. That’s not selfish, Shiv. You are not a little girl, you are not a wounded animal, you are not a dying flower, you are an adult woman and you are able to work with me here, because grown-ups aren’t supposed to bite each other.

You are so angry, so tightly wound, skin stretched so thin that you will punch me in the eye, reflexively, when I kiss your neck. I will carry that bruise in front of everyone, in front of fucking _Greg,_ and it’s fucking embarrassing to explain that your wife hits harder than she kisses. I know you didn’t _mean_ to, but it still fucking hurt. But you’ll get angry (you’ll get scared) if I tell you. You being afraid of your feelings means you’re embarrassed of mine, which is really fucking childish of you. Just because it’s not your fault doesn’t mean it isn’t a problem.

You have freckles on your hands. You have eyelashes that go see-through in the light. You have a scar on your hip from when you were 18 and tried to get a stick-and-poke. You have warm skin, you have a laugh that sounds like a standing ovation, you have a smile that I only get to see when you forget to be afraid, when you let me hold your weight, when you think I can’t see. You have lips that get chapped if you don’t use SPF 90 chapstick. When we met you didn’t think we’d last, so you let me watch you be alive, running through Venice at midnight, drunk and happy and full of greasy Italian food that you ate like you were proving a point. You let me follow you through Europe because you thought you were going to be an anecdote I would tell to some nice homegrown Minnesota girl, about my wild days with a rich girl who wasn’t like anybody else. It makes me happy when I realize where we are, that you’re my _wife,_ even if you won’t let us hang pictures on the fridge, because I know you keep the sticky notes I leave you on your coffee mug in the morning. I try to think of the dumbest possible joke, because your snort-laugh when you’re surprised is Beethoven, Bach, and Brahams. Your snore is Mozart, and when you stick your tongue out at me you are the Mona Lisa. You are your best when you are happy, _truly_ happy, and you will never believe me if I tell you that.

Sunlight hits the bowl of fruit we keep on the counter and makes the apples look like they’re made out of glass. Sunlight hits your skin and for a moment you are so still that you become a marble statue.

Darling, lover, I don’t know culture. Sweetheart, baby, I’m not an aristocrat, I’m from Saint Paul, but, Shiv, I promise, I know that you are why paint was invented. Pastels and pencils and poetry were made to describe you, in this moment, with your nose scrunched up and the cap of your ballpoint pen hanging between your lips. Matisse, Picasso, and Michelangelo are rolling in their graves because they never got to capture you. You are so beautiful, and you are so smart, and you are so angry, and you are so _alive,_ in a way no one has ever been or ever could be. Siobhan Roy, you are the meaning of art, and I love you. I really do.

**Author's Note:**

> if you want to join tomshiv nation (pop. 3.5) im livepoultryfreshkilled on tumblr. comments make my day!


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